<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Inscrutable Uncertainties of My Future by coruscatingcatastrophe</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246491">The Inscrutable Uncertainties of My Future</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/coruscatingcatastrophe/pseuds/coruscatingcatastrophe'>coruscatingcatastrophe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Legs, M/M, a dash of angst, dante does a lot of self-ruminating, dantes just trying to figure things out, shes there for like five seconds but i had to tag her</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 15:34:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/coruscatingcatastrophe/pseuds/coruscatingcatastrophe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An epilogue of sorts. A prologue of sorts. Sometimes Dante worries about the future, about his family, about his relationship with Ari. Ari's always there to remind him exactly why he shouldn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aristotle Mendoza/Dante Quintana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Inscrutable Uncertainties of My Future</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing about Angel Artisotle Mendoza is that he’s inscrutable. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Inscrutable </span>
  </em>
  <span>is a word I use to describe a lot of things, I guess. I guess that’s just because a lot of things are inscrutable. My mom. The universe at large. Ari. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari. Now, he’s really inscrutable. More inscrutable than the universe, probably.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I knew that when we first met. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s one of the reasons why I fell in love with him. You could spend an eternity with that boy and still never figure out what goes on in his head. He’s a mystery; he’s an unsolved, unsolvable puzzle. But I just keep thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe if I could find the right pieces, I could put him together in my mind. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>But I can’t. And a lot of times I love that, because he keeps me guessing. Every day feels new with him. I’ll never get tired of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>But there are times where I hate the guessing. I hate having to push him to talk about what he’s feeling; I hate the way it makes </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>feel—like I’m overbearing, like I’m a burden. I feel like I don’t know him sometimes, and it scares me because I think one of these days I’m going to push too far just </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know him, and he’s going to leave me behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The universe spins around Ari Mendoza. And so do I. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, Ari and I will drive out into the desert. And we’ll look at the stars and talk about all of life’s mysteries. We’ll talk about our siblings—his sisters and brother, my one sister, who will be here any day now. (We’re both excited about it; at least, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>we both are. You can never really tell with Ari.) We’ll talk about our parents. And now, we’ll hold hands. Sometimes we kiss. But we never really talk about it, and I never really know what he thinks about it all. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, I want to shout at him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What are we, Ari? What are we? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But I never do. Because things are good right now, even if I have no way of knowing quite what these </span>
  <em>
    <span>things </span>
  </em>
  <span>are. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I love the way it feels when he holds my hand. I love the way he kisses me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I think, if he’d let me in, I could love the parts of him that he’s never let me see. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another night out with Ari?” my dad says when I get home. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. The desert. We just talked about how much we love our families and listened to U2. We’re the epitome of teenage romance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>My dad chuckles. “There’s probably some truth to that. You know, one of your mother and I’s first dates was a drive out into the desert.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve told me a thousand times.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, I’m just saying. Bet I could give you some great advice if you really wanted. I mean, I’d say I’m pretty much an expert in the romance department.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“No thanks.” I roll my eyes so I can ignore the way my face is heating up. For some reason, the idea of asking my dad for advice about Ari is . . . weird. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I guess I kind of feel like I’m walking on eggshells around my parents. It’s not their fault. Recently they have this thing where they feel like they have to remind me that they love me all the time. And I guess it’s kind of sweet, because losing them is something I worried about for a long time. If I’m telling the truth, I still worry about it. There’s this creeping doubt, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if they change their minds? What if they just haven’t realized yet how much of a disappointment I am? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And anyway, even if I didn’t have those thoughts rolling around in my head, I still wouldn’t ask my dad for advice. Even if Ari was a girl, and I liked girls. There’s just something about asking your dad for relationship advice. Gross. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, if I could ask him anything, it would be this: </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>How did you know Mom was your forever? How did you tell her? And when did you stop being afraid that you were gonna blink and she would be gone? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Ari is driving at sixty-five miles per hour and has a math test on Monday, approximately how many miles will he travel if he gets in his truck now and never returns to El Paso?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I toss a piece of balled-up scrap paper at his head. “No way to solve that question. Too many unknown variables.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari ducks the paper ball, popping back up with this grin that just means he’s being a smartass. “Okay, forget the numbers. What if we just got in my truck and drove away? Never came back. Just you, me, Legs, and the desert.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your truck would break down eventually,” I counter immediately. “And besides, we couldn’t do that to our parents. And you love El Paso.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as I say it, I’m aware that I don’t know if it’s true or not. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Does </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ari love El Paso? What if he hates it and he’s just never said anything? What if he’s just waiting for graduation to roll around so he really can just get in his truck and drive to some far-off, impossible destination? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>What if he has this whole plan in his head, and I’m just not a part of it? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess you’re right. Too many variables, Dante.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What are you thinking? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Too many variables.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He picks up on the third ring. “Ari. Ari we’re going to the hospital.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“The baby</span>
  <em>
    <span>?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I’m about to be a big brother, Ari.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” I’m not sure, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you come?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Luna Angela Quintana is born at 4:46 a.m on a Tuesday, October 18th, 1989. Ten fingers, ten toes. She’s also notably a girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still wish she was a boy?” There’s definitely a smile in Ari’s voice now. I roll my eyes, but I don’t look up at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s this strange balance between something new and delicate, and something already impossibly strong. She’s going to be a self-assertive girl, I can already tell. She’s got her hand around my finger like she’s trying to pull it right off. In response to Ari’s question, she kicks her legs into my chest, as if she’s saying: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I dare you to say yes. I dare you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” I say. Then, more softly, “She’s perfect.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“She looks like your mother,” Ari says. “She’s beautiful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna have to teach her how to fight off the assholes.” Can you curse in front of a newborn? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that usually the brother’s job?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t fight worth shit. You know that.” I smile something crooked; Ari doesn’t smile back. He never thinks it’s funny when I joke about that. But what else am I supposed to do? I can’t let myself be angry. And I can’t let myself be sad, either. I’d go insane, trying to deal with all those negative emotions. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while, Ari holds her. He cradles her carefully, his hand bigger than her entire head, and there’s just something about the sight that makes my heart slow down, pound more heavily in my chest. And I wonder, </span>
  <em>
    <span>could we have this someday? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Ari. Do you ever want kids?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari gives me this funny look. “Together? How would we do that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. We could adopt, maybe. Something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ari hums, and while he hums he looks down at my baby sister, who’s looking around at the world with these wide, dark black eyes. They’re like twin perfect, polished pieces of onyx. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And, “Maybe,” Ari says. Maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” I say. My heart thuds, thuds, thuds against my ribcage, injected with lead. “Maybe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, maybe, maybe.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes I look at the people around me and I just feel sort of . . . I don’t know. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s senior year. All of my classmates want to talk about this year is graduation. Graduation and college. Most of the boys in my school are planning on going to college. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going to go?” one of the boys from the swim team asks me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” I tell him. I don’t tell him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t even know if I want to go to college</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I know it’s expected of me. I know Ari’s parents are expecting him to go to college, too. They want us to be educated, I guess. Me, I don’t really get it. I’ve spent my whole life in school. Why should I have to spend the first years of my adult life in school, too? Isn’t adulthood supposed to be about making your own choices, about being free and out in the world? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And why does it have to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>right </span>
  </em>
  <span>after high school? That’s what I really don’t get. Why can’t we get a break? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And okay, graduation isn’t exactly the only thing the guys in my class are talking about. Another of their favorite topics: girls. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re always talking about girls. Girls they’re dating, girls they’re interested in dating. Girls they’d like to score with. Nasty things, too. Things they’d probably be ashamed of if their moms or sisters heard them. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I get what Ari means when he says he doesn’t like to hang out around other guys. Guys can be real assholes sometimes. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, they’re always trying to get me in on the conversations, and I’m just not interested. Sometimes I wonder how they’d react if I told them I have a . . . if I told them about Ari. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A lot of these boys call themselves my friends. How many still would, if they knew? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I guess it makes me mad. It’s unfair, I think, that people think they can treat people like me and Ari differently just because of who we love. If I love a boy, so what? What makes me any different from the guys who talk about their girlfriends? I mean, the few guys who really talk about their girlfriends. The guys you can tell are crazy about their girlfriends. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I think I’m crazy about Ari. Actually, I’m certain I am. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that I’d go around talking about Ari all the time, anyway. I guess I just think it would be nice to have the choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe I’m a little bit jealous. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>(A lot jealous.) </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I wonder what Ari thinks about this. I wonder if it bothers him. I wonder, I wonder. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I know it makes him angry. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>We can’t talk about what happened at the end of summer. It’s one of his rules, I guess. It pisses him off, talking about what those guys did to me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I asked him once if he’d be ashamed to be seen with me in public—you know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>like that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d gotten pretty pissed. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. I’m not ashamed of you, Dante. I could never be ashamed of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay. You’re not ashamed of me. You don’t have to get so mad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not ashamed of you,” he repeated. There was something different in his voice. He looked at me and his eyes were filled with some raw emotion. And I knew he was telling the truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span> So we don’t talk about it. Instead, we just do what we always do. We live. We’re Ari and Dante. Dante and Ari. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And our parents. And Legs. And Luna. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari and his parents come over a couple days after my mom and Luna come home. Ari holds her for a little while on the porch and I play fetch with Legs, using one of my tennis shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and your shoes,” Ari says. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me and my shoes,” I agree. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And I feel incredibly happy. And I feel incredibly sad. I keep thinking about how this time next year, we aren’t all going to be here together. We’re not going to be able to sit on my front porch and listen to our parents’ laughter filtering out through the open door. We won’t be here to play fetch with Legs every day. We won’t be here for Luna’s first steps, probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s strange how much the little things seem to matter, when you think about them so much. Or maybe it’s strange how easy it is to forget how important the little things are to begin with. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you thinking, Dante?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s rare that Ari asks me a question like that. He’s looking at me with this sort of recognition, like I’ve brought out an old emotion I haven’t worn in a while, one that’s a little bit dusty and faded, but still familiar enough to call an acquaintance. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember when I told you that I used to wake up thinking that the world was ending?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It feels like it’s ending now, Ari. It feels close now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari says, “The world’s not ending, Dante.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I feel a little angry. Anger isn’t something I’m accustomed to feeling very often. I don’t think I like it. I wonder how Ari can ever contain his. It feels like a live, wild thing inside of me. “How can you possibly know?” I ask him. Demand of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, maybe I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Or maybe the world is ending. Maybe a new one is about to begin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Legs runs up to me. She drops my shoe, dirty and dog-slobbered, at my feet. “What if I don’t like the new one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari says, “I guess we’ll deal with that if it happens.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And I feel happy. And sad. And angry. And lonely. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>How is it, that you can be surrounded by your very favorite people in the universe, and still feel so damn lonely? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s late in the evening and it’s New Year’s, and I know I shouldn’t be here, standing at Ari’s front door. His sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews are over, and they’re celebrating. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I should be home with my own family, celebrating. But I can’t stop my head from running in these circles. It’s driving me crazy. I’m not used to these feelings. I’m not used to not understanding. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari’s dad opens the door. His warm smile immediately fades into something concerned when he gets a good look at me. “Dante?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I,” I begin, “Can I talk to Ari?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari comes to the door. When he sees me, he steps out onto the porch and closes it behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just him and me and the pounding, aching space between us. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It shouldn’t be like this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I keep thinking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It just shouldn’t be like this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dante?” he says. Ari never usually sounds worried, but right now, he’s close. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s New Year’s,” I say. It’s New Year’s, it’s New Year’s. New beginnings. New resolutions. New plans. New dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Where do the two of us fit, in all that newness? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It New Year’s,” Ari replies. He waits. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just want to know where we stand this year. I want to know that we’re real. What are we, Ari? What am I to you? What are you to me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m yours,” he answers, without even a moment’s hesitation. “I’m yours, I’m always yours. I’ll always be yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to be able to call you my boyfriend.” I think I’m crying. I think I really am. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then call me your boyfriend. Call me whatever the hell you want. I’m yours, Dante. Your boyfriend. Your whatever. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The thing about Ari is he always lets me cry. He lets me feel whatever I feel and he never feels like he has to say anything about it. Do anything about it. If my mother could see me now, she’d be psychoanalyzing the hell out of me. If it was my father, he’d be trying to comfort me. But what he would never be able to understand is there’s nothing really there to be comforted. I am inconsolable. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe I do. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe I do</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And maybe that’s why this is so hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ari, Ari. Ari Mendoza. My boyfriend,” I whisper. I look at him for a long time, and he looks back at me. And I fall apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s so bad about that? What’s so bad about that, Ari?” I cry. And he holds me, lets me cry into his shoulder. And, “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And I just cry, and cry, and cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And yeah, I guess I do know what’s wrong with me. Or maybe it’s not me. Maybe it’s a kind of wrong that comes not from inside of myself, but from something else. But it hurts me anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it hurt you too?” I have to know. “Ari, doesn’t it hurt you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it does,” he whispers. “But it doesn’t change how much I love you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I cry harder, after that. He holds me closer.</span>
  <em>
    <span> I don’t deserve him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I think. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t deserve him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Who could ever be good enough to deserve Aristotle Mendoza? </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I don’t want to go to college right away?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>My mother pauses with her coffee mug halfway to her lips. My father lowers his newspaper. Neither of them speaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I—” I’ve never felt this nervous talking to my parents before, I don’t think. Even when I woke up in the hospital. Even in that first moment when I knew that they knew. “I’m not saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I just think, maybe, I need some time. What if I want to stay home for a year? What if I want to take care of Luna while you guys work? I want to be around for my baby sister to know me. And I—and I just feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>much,</span>
  </em>
  <span> lately. Everything’s changing.” I don’t mean for my voice to break. I sound fifteen again. “I just want a little bit of </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>My parents exchange one of those looks that mean they’re having an entire conversation with their eyes alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does Ari think about this?” my mother finally asks. She doesn’t sound angry. She sounds eerily placid. Like the smooth, calm surface of a lake in the moments before a monster drags you down. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I haven’t told him.” I meet her eyes. “I want to stay even if he goes. This isn’t really about him, Mom.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She sounds resigned. “You know, I had a feeling this was how it was going to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“How what was going to go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have to choose your own path, Dante. It’s your life. As your parents, it’s our job to support you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I bow my head. I whisper, “I don’t want to disappoint you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will never disappoint us.” My father, reaching to settle a warm and steady hand on my shoulder. “You are our </span>
  <em>
    <span>son</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We are so proud of you. We will always be so proud of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s like a weight being lifted off of my chest. Even though they’ve said it before—even though they’ll say it again—it feels different, this time. Like maybe I could actually believe it. Like maybe I don’t have to live up to this expectation of myself that’s always been in my head. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Upstairs, the baby begins to cry. I look up and my mother smiles. “We’re putting you on full-time duty the second that diploma’s in your hands.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I get up from my seat, bend to kiss both of them on the cheek. “Guess I better get in all the experience I can before then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wise boy,” my dad says. He and my mother smile at each other, at me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah. Wise boy. Maybe just foolish enough to believe that the world will wait for me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, just maybe, it’s not foolishness after all. Maybe it’s hope, and just the right dosage of expectation. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Winter fades into spring, and Ari gets a haircut. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s nothing major: it was just getting too long, he says. It’s back to just below shoulder length. I run my fingers through it, and he feels like Ari. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you ever seriously cut your hair, I think I might cry,” I tell him seriously. He laughs. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari’s making plans. He’s been talking to my mom about getting his BS in psychology. Down the line, he’s thinking of becoming a sleep medicine specialist. “Doctor Aristotle Mendoza,” I say, whistling through my teeth. He rolls his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d definitely have to cut my hair,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe not,” I counter. “The world is always evolving. Or we could move to a big city, where they don’t care so much what doctors look like.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know.” And Ari smiles at me. And my heart beats, slowly, slowly, slow. “I kind of love El Paso.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you come back to me?” I ask him. “Every summer. Every holiday. When you graduate. Come back to me?” It sounds a bit like a plea, maybe. I’m not above begging. I think I’d do anything, just to have the solace that he’s mine, mine, always mine. To have. To keep. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And his smile turns just a shade brighter, like he’s rotated the dial of a light switch one degree. And it turns a shade softer, too. I don’t understand quite what that look means, yet. I hope I have the time it takes to figure it out. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And, “Of course,” he promises. “Of course, Dante. You’re the thing I love most about El Paso.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Graduation isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. The way adults talk, it’s supposed to be some life-changing, universe-warping moment. It’s supposed to be the moment you truly pass from the land of childhood through the threshold of adulthood. It’s supposed to be the moment “real life” begins. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>But all it is is walking across a stage. Accepting a plaque with your name on it, which supposedly symbolizes all of your life’s achievements up to this point. Then accepting hugs from your crying parents and your boyfriend’s crying parents. And then going home to celebrate over dinner and ice cream. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“How does it feel?” Mrs. Mendoza asks us both. “Do you feel any older?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari and I look at each other. I smile. He shrugs. “About the same. But I’ve felt like an old man for a long time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>My father chuckles at him. “You’re too young to be feeling so old.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell that to my creaky joints.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After dinner, Ari takes a deep breath. He turns to me. “I got you something,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“A graduation present? I didn’t know we were doing that. Is that a thing I should have known about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Ari rolls his eyes, but I have this subtle but distinct feeling that he’s just doing that to cover up something else. “No. It’s not really a graduation gift, exactly. It’s just . . . I thought maybe it was the right time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time?” I repeat. “Time for what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t answer me in words. He pulls out a small black box. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he says, “You’ve been so worried recently. About us. You asked me if I would come back to you, even though we both already know there’s no one else I would ever return to. The universe spins around you, Dante. Or maybe just mine. Either way, now we’ll both have proof.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He pops the box open. Two gleaming, golden bands. They look expensive. I want to ask him where the hell he got the money for those. I want to ask him what the hell he’s doing. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re not engagement rings,” he says before I can even string the sounds together. “They’re pretty much just symbolic, like our diplomas. But they mean that I’m definitely, always coming back—because I’m one hundred percent yours. Now you have no choice but to believe me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You . . .” My throat feels tight. “Where the hell did you get the money for those?” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“My Aunt Ophelia’s house. I think she would have thought they were a pretty wise investment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The laugh tears out of me before I can stop it. “You’re crazy, Ari,” I tell him. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he says. “Guess I am.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I tell him, “I love you.” I don’t think I’ve ever meant something so much in my life. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And then I kiss him. Right there, in front of my parents and his parents and my baby sister and his dog. I kiss him, and he kisses me, and I don’t really care about anything else. And I’m thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, I love you, I love you. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand settles over mine, and our hearts beat slow. And I know, without having to ask, exactly what he’s thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you, I love you too. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>_____</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The first day of summer is coming to a steady, languid end. We’re in the bed of his truck. The stars are out, swirling by above us like spectators in our own private universe. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I have my arm around his shoulders, and the night feels calm. Legs is sleeping with her head in my lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I say, “It’s the first day of summer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep,” Ari says. “Different rules.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Different rules,” I agree. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we should try to keep this one good. No getting our legs run over. No getting beat up in alleyways.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re breaking the rules,” I note. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well. Maybe rules are meant to be broken sometimes. It’s summer, Dante.” </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s summer.” I look at him. He looks at me. We smile, and then we laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s never going to be another summer without you,” I say. It’s a fact as much as it’s a promise. A golden band sits solid and cool on my left hand to remind me. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds good to me,” Ari says. He reaches over to take my hand, lining our palms up. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s so much that I don’t understand about Ari—so many things I will never understand until he explains them to me; so many things I may never understand about him—but I do understand this. I understand what it is like to while away the starry nights with a beautiful boy that I love. I understand the way I feel when he holds my hand. I understand that kissing him is a pastime that I will never grow tired of, no matter how old we eventually grow. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And I understand that I love those unknowable parts of him as well, the same way I love the parts I know as well as I know myself. You can’t have one without the other. It’s all about balance, maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe Ari’s right. Maybe the world really is ending. Maybe we’ve come to the end of one chapter, and we’re about to turn the page onto a new one. Maybe we’ll create a new one together. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>For now, I’ll sit and hold Ari’s hand, and I will be content that he is mine. And I will trust that the world will wait for me, for us, until the day that we’re ready to take on whatever the universe has planned for us next. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i finished rereading ari and dante again yesterday and this was the result. these boys are too beautiful for our universe to be able to handle. i hope i did them justice &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>